From the shadows, he emerges. The small pool of
olive oil on his hands glistens in the candlelight and drips on the tile floor
through his fingers.

Decadent.

Hedonistic.

Dark.

I glimpse
his face as he approaches the bed, and he’s grinning wickedly, his hair messy
and wild. Bare feet on a cold floor. Shirt off. Jeans unbuttoned, with a thatch
of groomed pubic hair peeking out, his root showing.

My body
tingles and gooseflesh erupts on my arms and legs.

His
appraising eyes slowly, languidly, take in my form.

And I love
it. I absolutely love the way he looks at me, like he’s appreciating every
freckle, every hair follicle, every curve. My painted toes. My voluptuous
calves. My ample thighs. And on up.

Another
drip of olive oil plops on the floor. Part of me thinks it’s a waste. The other
part of me loves this game.

The wait,
the watching, makes me pant, and I breathe faster and faster as he comes
closer. My skin’s glowing in his dim room.

What
surprise does he have for me this time?

The
mystery. I love the mystery and anticipation. I don’t know what’s coming next.
I don’t know the plan.

I have no
idea what pleasures are in store for me tonight, but I’m sure they’re coming.

He knows
what he does to me. He knows I’m resisting writhing on the crisp, rough sheets,
which are crackly from drying on a line out back in the cold, wintry Andalusian
sun. We’ll soften them soon enough when our bodies join together, but right now
they’re almost like brittle sandpaper, chafing my skin.

With a bite
of his lip, trying to control his smile, he rubs his hands together, making a
suction sound from the lubrication. The oil smells fruity, green—if you could
smell a color—and bitter.

I’ve licked
it on his skin enough times to know its taste. The complexity of the flavors.
How just a drop on the tongue can make me want so much.

I love it.

Even though
I shouldn’t.

My eyes
stay on his hands. I’m obsessed with them, especially his callouses. Over time,
they’ve built up on the pads of his palms, right next to where his fingers
begin. The telltale sign of a life lived working outside, although it’s not
what he wants. Sometimes his rough patches crack and bleed, a hazard of using a
rake to beat the olives out of the trees.

A hazard of
using his hands.

Those
hands, those scratchy callouses now skim down my naked body, half-lit in the
dark room, leaving a trail of oil. My hair splays across the pillow. His light
touch makes my nipples point up. My pulse pound. My body ache. I arch up into
his fingers, wanting more. Needing more.

Leslie McAdam is a California girl who loves romance, Little
Dude, and well-defined abs. She lives in a drafty old farmhouse on a small
orange tree farm in Southern California with her husband and two small
children. Leslie always encourages her kids to be themselves – even if it means
letting her daughter wear leopard print from head to toe. An avid reader from a
young age, she will always trade watching TV for reading a book, unless it’s
Top Gear. Or football. Leslie is employed by day but spends her nights writing
about the men you fantasize about. She’s unapologetically sarcastic and
notoriously terrible at comma placement (that’s what editors are for!). Always
up for a laugh, Leslie tries to see humor in all things. When she’s not in the
writing cave you’ll find her fangirling over Beck, camping with her family, or
mixing up oil paints to depict her love of outdoors on canvas.